


Silent nights

by RossKL



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, It's not proper fluff actually, M/M, More like Hurt/Comfort, Sibling Incest, Teenlock, mention of underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:37:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1401670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RossKL/pseuds/RossKL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p class="MsoNormal">
  <span>"I love
you," he whispered.</span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">
  <span>Mycroft didn't
reply.</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent nights

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say. I adore the relationship between those two. I had to write something about it.  
>  Sherlock is 16, Mycroft is 23.  
>  Not beta'ed, English is not my first language. I'm sorry for all the errors, please let me know if there are any.

 

 

** Silent nights **

"I love you," he whispered.

Mycroft didn't reply.

Sherlock snuggled closer, staring blankly in front of him, and tucked his long arms around his brother. He didn't say anything more, he just tried to absorb the tiniest particle of his smell and keep them in his Mind Palace. 

Every single one of those moments were precious to him.

Mycroft had left home for five years, and Sherlock missed him so hard.

He did escape, once in a while, and he took the first train to Oxford in order to sneak into the renowned college and, more precisely, into his brother's chamber – fifteenth on the left, ground floor, window open on Monday and Thursday.

When it happened, his mother went crazy. She tried to find him in every way she knew, but she'd never managed to know where he really went.

No one knew.

They had never talked about this, not really. They always bickered, but that seemed to be only a pride matter, nothing else. 

And when Mycroft had left, Sherlock saw his anchor get in the car and just _leave_. 

Sherlock resisted three months, then he took the London – Oxford train for the first time in his life.

He just had to climb through the open window and stop right there, once in. 

They didn't talk, they just stared at each other, and then they clashed together halfway, mouths tangled up in a weird way, but they didn't care.

They just stood there and kissed, touching everything they could, hands curling on each other's shirt and then slipping them off their trousers.

They just lied on the bed then, after the kissing session, close, and they didn't talk.

They didn't talk for five years, not ever – not even at the Christmas dinners. They just looked at each other secretly, when they thought no one was paying attention.

Ten visits before, though, Sherlock showed up in a bloody wound on the right arm, and several tiny circular holes on the left one.

Mycroft looked at them blankly, and instead of kiss right there, he went to the bathroom and took out the aid kit. 

He took care of every single needle wounds, not once speaking – not asking, not complaining, not scolding. They spoke themselves, they said too much already. That was the first time they sleeped together.

From then, Sherlock's left arm was always clean, at least when he visited Mycroft. 

He didn't want to let his brother know how much he missed him. 

That night, though, the signs on Sherlock's arm were there again. 

And he had talked. 

Mycroft didn't know what to say. He'd never been intimate with Sherlock – not with words, at least. It seemed like he could ruin everything just by speaking, so he chose to stay silent. 

He just tightened his holds on Sherlock's side, and sighed.

Not long after, Sherlock was dressed once again, and he prepared to leave the room, wishing to arrive in London before dawn.

Just before he climbed out, he turned toward his brother. _Just two years left_ , he wanted to say, but he didn't.

Mycroft looked back at him, standing and approaching him. 

He brushed his lips on his brother's, a simple gesture that seemed so out of tune after all they'd done that made Sherlock flush only slightly.

The pale ghost of a smile appeared on Mycroft's lips.

Then Sherlock was gone. 


End file.
